


What Should Be.

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Superlock - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: AU, Angst, Crossover, Djinni & Genies, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform, Supernatural/Sherlock Crossover, What is and what should never be, djinn, superlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-06 17:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson wakes up and his life is turned upside down. He doesn't know why, but suddenly he has everything he ever wished for... Aside from seeing a man in a green jacket-- that no one else seems to see-- follow him around town sometimes, his life is perfect. So who is he to question how it happened?<br/>What he doesn't know is that he is being kept in an abandoned warehouse, strung up by his wrists, unconscious, and that this is all a dream.<br/>Sam Winchester is hunting down the Djinn that took his brother, he tracked the thing to the outskirts of London... he stumbles across John by a miraculous happenstance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What the Hell is Happening?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello this is chapter one.. Basically when John wakes up and his deepest wishes seem to have come true by some miracle. A bit NSFW at the end. Johnlock right away.. Sam and Dean come in later.. briefly.

He opened his eyes and blinked a few times. He looked around the room, confused. How had he gotten back in his bed? The last thing he remembered was him in a dark alley being cornered by a person with an abundance of weird face tattoos... his eyes were REALLY blue.... John jumped as he heard a groan next to him, breaking him from his train of thought... what the hell was Sherlock Holmes doing his bed?

He got up cautiously as not to wake the sleeping detective, and practically ran to the kitchen where he had collapsed onto the floor in a panic. He was trying to piece together what had happened but was drawing a blank. Sure maybe in his wildest dreams he imagined waking up next to his flat mate but he would have never acted on any sort of feeling or attraction he had to the man. He hadn’t been drinking the night before And he wouldn’t have been drugged… So what the hell happened?  
Upon walking out of the bedroom and seeing John in this frazzled state, Sherlock rushed over to him. “John. John what’s wrong?” He held him close like this was a normal form of comfort coming from Sherlock Holmes and John just stayed very still. What the hell. “What’s wrong love?”  
Love? He was dreaming. He must have been. The last thing he remembers from the night before was thinking Sherlock would come save him.. Maybe he was dead and this was heaven. His version of heaven was with Sherlock. Who else was there really?

John was calm, he tried to tell himself he was anyway. “Uh.. Nothing, I’m… I think I’m fine. Nightmare maybe?”

John was apprehensive as Sherlock helped him slowly to his feet and over to the couch. Sherlock sat next to him and pulled his head down into his lap and stroked his hair. John tensed at the touch at first, but it didn't take long for him to relax. Whatever was happening, he decided he would figure it out later... he wanted to treasure every second of this dream before he snapped back into reality. 

Later, in the evening, John pulled out his laptop and went to his blog, hoping to fill in some of the gaps... it had several entries he didn't recall making, and when he scrolled to look for anything that happened around the time of the fall, he found nothing. There was A Study in Pink, a few other mysteries he and Sherlock had solved in the beginning, but... nothing about the fall, nothing about Moriarty at all, as a matter of fact. "Sherlock?"  
"Hmm?" he glanced up from his phone.  
"Did I happen to mention deleting any of my blog posts?"  
"No, you never delete anything you post, as far as I know. Why do you ask?"  
"Well.. I'm on my blog and I'm missing some things. It's like... I never posted a thing about Moriarty or... I mean even my post about you after the fall is gone."  
"John what are you talking about? Who's Moriarty?"  
John froze. A dream where Moriarty never existed? Where he and Sherlock were together? Where Sherlock had never taken that swan dive off St. Bart's, maybe? What the hell was going on....  
"I uh... nevermind."  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but dropped the matter, going back to his phone. John pulled out his own and dialed Greg as he walked into his bedroom. "Hey... are you busy? I uh.. was wondering if you could meet me.... No, no I'm fine. Just... I need to talk to you... Right. Okay I'll see you in 30." He put his phone back in his pocket and walked back out. "Right... uh.. I'm gonna go pick up some milk, I'll be back."  
No response. Well, at least some things hadn't changed. 

"John... What can I do for you?" Lestrade said as they sat down at the pub down the street.  
"Greg, I need to know that you'll keep this a secret, allright?"  
"You're scaring me a little, what's going on?"  
"Allright.. uh.. This is going to sound mad. But last night I was attacked, cornered by a man with face tattoos. I woke up, and everything was different. Sherlock doesn't remember Moriarty or the fall. And he was in my bed. And I have no idea what the hell happened last night." He took a deep breath, knowing he sounded completely bonkers.  
"Who's Moriarty? What fall are you talking about, John?"  
John's forehead wrinkled. "Moriarty. Criminal mastermind. Sherlock jumped off the top of St. Bart's Hospital, faked his death to protect us.... Are you joking with me? Because it's really not funny."  
"John what the bloody hell are you on about? Do I look like I'm joking? And why's it a shock to find Sherlock in your bed? You've been together for a year, have you never shared a bed before? I'm lost."  
Shit. John shook his head and took a swig of beer. "Just forget it. Must've uh.. just.. forget it."  
Somehow, it seemed as though the last few years had just been a part of an ongoing nightmare, and that he had everything he ever dreamed of. He had Sherlock, and he REALLY didn't care about much else. He was confused, sure, because what kind of a nightmare lasts for 3 years of your life? But nonetheless, he had Sherlock and he had good friends and he had the cases and really, what else could he want?  
John spent most of the remainder of the time assuring Greg that he really was fine and that he was just confused as his nightmares from the night before blurred with reality.  
It wasn't too long before John decided to head back home to 221B. He planned on stopping to get milk like he said he would, but he got distracted... he was being followed. Every time he turned around,, the man was the same distance behind him, but he was definitely following him. He looked to be about 30, he had a green jacket and jeans, and he didn't appear to have a weapon, so John ignored him for the most part as he briskly walked the 5 blocks back to Baker Street. "John? Where were you?"  
"Oh. With Lestrade. I had some questions I needed to ask him, it turned out to be nothing." After no more than a second's hesitation, he walked over and pressed his lips to Sherlock's, very briefly, trying to act as if he had done it before. Sherlock smiled, "Do I make you nervous, John Watson?"  
"What, no. I just... am amazed I get to kiss you. I wanted you for so long and now..." he trailed off and looked into his partner's eyes. He found in this world, whether it was reality or a dream, peace to feel openly towards Sherlock what he had kept hidden for so long. He loved him, it was as simple as that. He could have sworn he saw Sherlock blush at the compliment. "You're so... beautiful, Sherlock."  
"Oh shut up," he said, planting a kiss on John's lips. John tried not to be overtaken by his desire to pounce and undress him on the spot, as he pulled the taller man's face down so he could ravish him with a few more kisses. He was kissing Sherlock bloody Holmes, if this was a dream he never wanted to wake up. He ran his tongue along Sherlock's bottom lip and moaned quietly, his sounds eliciting a most interesting reaction in his partner as Sherlock pulled him down onto the couch and straddled him, not once breaking the kiss.  
That night, John took in every detail. The taste of his mouth, the way it felt having his weight on top of him. He memorized the curve of his body as they laid together, the feeling of their erections rubbing together... something he never thought would feel so amazing. He would never forget how it felt to have his hands tangled in that gorgeous hair... That night was a wonderful blur of kisses and passion and tongues and everything wonderful that he ever wanted and everything he never thought he would actually get.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a case... John keeps seeing the man with the green jacket.. weird.

John opened his eyes, waking next to Sherlock for the second time in his life that he could remember. He could get used to this. He smiled and placed his hand on Sherlock’s pale, strong chest, just feeling his heart beat. He drifted back to sleep staring at his partner’s face, content to just be existing. It was an hour later that he woke to the sounds of Sherlock working on something in the kitchen. Probably an experiment. John got up to shower and as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom, he was ordered to get dressed, there was a case. 

Sherlock rattled on about the suicide that was most definitely actually a murder as they got out of the cab and made their way towards Joanna Lancaster’s flat. John was distracted though, because walking several feet behind them was the man in the green jacket that he’d seen following him the previous night. Who was he? What did he want? John put the stranger out of his mind, not wanting Sherlock to notice and start asking questions. He was Sherlock, he probably already noticed, but… he wasn’t saying anything, and John wanted to keep it that way. 

They arrived on the crime scene, luckily having lost the strange man who had been following them, and it was all business. Lestrade gave them the run-down as Sherlock was already deducing and explaining, in great detail, why this could not have been a suicide. He was a genius, and John would never get sick of watching this brilliant man work.   
"It’s all wrong, the blood spatter, it would have to be…"  
John stopped listening because there he was again, the man in the green coat, he only walked past the window for a second, but John was sure it was him. His brow furrowed as he tried to focus back on Sherlock, ignoring all the questions in his head that wondered who this man was. “So, quite obviously murder,” he finished. 

John was unusually quiet as they made their way to St. Bart’s. “John, what is it? You’ve been acting peculiar all day.”  
"It’s nothing, I just feel a bit off today. I’m fine."  
"I don’t think you are."  
"Just drop it, Sherlock. It’s seriously fine."  
He rolled his eyes and sent a text to Molly, letting her know they were on their way.   
Sherlock found all he needed in the blood samples a few hours of tests later. “Allright, time to go catch ourselves a killer,” Sherlock said, clapping his hands together, “Come along, John.” With a dramatic swoop of his coat, he was out the door. John smiled politely at Molly and took off after his insane flatmate. 

They arrived at the house of the victim’s sister within an hour. “Who are you, I’ve already spoken to the police,” she stated plainly.   
"Yes, we know, we just need some more information, Miss Lancaster, may we come in?" Sherlock could charm his way into any situation and the way he was looking at her made John a little bit sick.   
"What do you need to know?"   
"Allright, start from the beginning. Was your sister depressed?"  
"Look, I already told the police, no she wasn’t depressed. I had no idea, and I know I should have known, but I didn’t, okay?" she choked back a sob as John put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "She called me, a few days ago… She was talking crazy, like she was scared, and I should have known. But I wrote it off, she can get paranoid. She was saying that dark forces were at work and it was just crazy talk, I didn’t know."   
"Dark forces…" Sherlock muttered to himself. Crazy talk indeed.  
"She believed in all that paranormal stuff… even went to see a psychic the week before she…" trailing off for a moment, she gathered her composure, "I just ignored it, I always have, I mean what person in their right mind believes in all that?"  
"Right. Well, I think that’s all we need, thank you Miss Lancaster. I’ll be in touch." Sherlock was gone as fast as he had come and left John trailing behind him again, wondering how he could have deduced anything from such a short conversation. He was a few paces behind him on the street and Sherlock was calling for a cab when he saw that green jacket out of the corner of his eye. He stopped abruptly and stared at the man. Neither of them talked, just… stared. Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and he looked up at him, "Are you even listening?"  
"Sorry, I, uh… I got.." he trailed off, looking back to the place where the stranger had stood, but he was gone. He was losing his mind. "Distracted," he finished.  
"You seem to be doing that an awful lot lately, every time I turn around, you’re staring at thin air. Is there something you want to tell me?"  
"I’m fine. Maybe I’m just tired, I’m seeing things that.. nothing. It’s nothing. Allright, just drop it."  
"John," his expression softened, "You can tell me. What’s going on?"  
"Lack of sleep. I’m just tired, let’s go."  
Sherlock knew he was lying.. he must have. But, for whatever reason, he kept his mouth shut about the matter.   
When they arrived at their destination, about 20 minutes east of the Joanna Lancaster's flat, Sherlock spoke again, "So, John, have you ever wanted to visit a psychic?" he smiled and gave that infamous wink and John only groaned in response. Oh brilliant. "Come on... it'll be FUN." Sherlock gave John a quick kiss of encouragement before they walked into the psychic's office. 

"Sherlock Holmes. I've been expecting you," a voice said from the next room. There was a familiar click from that same direction and John's heart stopped. Oh god.  
"Oh good, so you know that I know that it was you who killed Joanna Lancaster." What? John was used to being brought into the face of danger, but how had Sherlock known who the killer was? They'd hardly done any investigating.  
"Yes. But, luckily for me, no one will ever find out," she said. She stepped out of the shadows, a gun pointed at Sherlock's head.   
"How original."  
"I'm not going to kill you, Sherlock. John, on the other hand... I might have a go at him."  
"Why? What use would killing him do?"  
"Oh I'd just love to see the look on your face as I shoot your beloved companion."  
"You realize you're not the first person to try this on me. Do you want to know what happened to the others who tried to hurt John?"  
"Oh, big talk. You've got nothing."  
"I wouldn't be so sure of that."  
"You're not distracting me with all this chatter, you know." she smiled wickedly as the shot rang out and John was on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet Sam and Dean soon!


	3. A dream is a wish your heart makes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in a hospital and comes to term with the last few days being a dream.   
> Back to Baker Street he goes with his consulting detective. That's silly, Sherlock wasn't HIS. He didn't want that. Did he?

"Sammy. Sam, this guy’s still breathing. Come on, help me out here.”   
”Hold on, man, we’re gonna get you out of here.”  
"We stop in London on our way to freakin'... and we run into a djinn. Just our luck. I hate flying, Sam..."  
 John was vaguely aware of being carried by whoever these guys were, but the next thing he knew, the voices drifted off, and he woke in a hospital bed.   ”John, joining us back in the land of the living?” Sherlock asked from across the room. John didn’t answer. He blinked a few times and stared at the ceiling. What had happened? He was complete disoriented as he flew through the possibilities in his head, the most logical explanation would be that the man with the face tattoos had attacked him and he had passed out-- or been drugged-- while he dreamt wildly about a life he would never have. Was it some sort of coping mechanism or a reaction to a drug? It didn’t make much sense either way. His jumbled train of thought was interrupted by Lestrade, “John! You’re up… how do you feel?”   
”I feel… Odd. What happened to me?”   
 ”You were attacked. A couple of American blokes found you, you’d been missing for days and no one could figure out where you’d gone. Those guys who brought you in, they’re called Sam and Dean Winchester, they’re gone now. First flight back to the states. Dean was banged up pretty bad, he was kidnapped, too. Sam’s the one that found you both, it was really lucky that he did, too… You’d lost a lot of blood. The sadistic bastard kept you hooked up to an IV that was slowly draining your blood, a few hours longer and you’d have been dead. We still have no leads on why he would have been draining your blood...” Lestrade trailed off and glanced at Sherlock, eyes still glued to his phone as he stood by the window.  John tried to process it all, some things a bit fuzzy, but the picture becoming clearer as Lestrade spoke.  ”Do you remember your attacker?”   
”Yeah… He was strange, had a bunch of tattoos on his face.”  
 ”That's what we hoped... Well you won’t have to worry about him anymore, he’s dead. Sam stabbed him.”  
 ”How long? Was I gone, I mean?” John asked, trying to get out of the haze he was in.    
”Three days. You’ve been here for another two days on top of that. So don’t worry, you didn’t even miss a week.” John forced a smile, reminding himself that Greg was just trying to lighten the mood.  ”Allright, I’ll leave you to rest, I’ll come back with some more questions later for the report, but just take it easy for awhile, all right?”  He shut the door behind him and John was left with Sherlock.   
“So.. Five days. What did I miss?”   
Sherlock remained silent.  
“Sherlock?”   
He spoke quickly, “I couldn’t find you. I had no idea who’d taken you and I still don’t understand the motive. And I don’t know why he was draining you of your blood, had it been torture you would have had to be conscious. And the doctors say you weren’t drugged but you must have been. They clearly missed something, seeing as though you weren’t conscious for any of it. I don’t like not knowing, John.”  
“Well I’m fine now, and he’s dead. So I guess there’s nothing left to worry about.”  
Sherlock didn’t answer, he just sat there with his fingertips pressed together and resting under his nose.  
They didn’t say much to eachother for the remaining time spent in the hospital, and a few hours later after the questions and tests, it was back to Baker Street they went.  
John walked slowly up the stairs, a bit out of his element, and upon arriving, Sherlock stormed into his room and all but slammed the door behind him.   
John rolled his eyes and plopped down in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Stupid, how bloody stupid. A strange dream didn’t change anything and he was stupid to have expected it to. Just because he had acknowledged his.. whatever it was he had for his flatmate, wouldn’t change that Sherlock just didn’t do sentiment. He was married to his work, He’d made that abundantly clear the first time they’d went to dinner. Besides, John wasn’t even sure if Sherlock was what he wanted, even if there was some miracle of a chance that Sherlock felt it too, was that what he wanted? He shook his head. 'It's the dream talking, Watson,' he told himself, 'you'll be back to your old self in no time.'  
It didn’t matter anyway. ‘I pale in comparison to Sherlock Holmes anyway,’ he thought to himself.  
John was so lost in thought, he ended up drifting to sleep in his chair.  
\-----  
In the morning, John woke to Sherlock sitting across from him, in his own chair, staring intently. “Christ, Sherlock what the hell are you doing?” John demanded, not sounding nearly as forceful as he had hoped, his voice still thick with sleep.   
“You said my name. I wanted to know if you had anything else interesting to say in your sleep.”  
“Watching your friends sleep is weird and I wouldn’t make it a habit if I were you,” John stretched his limbs and rubbed the back of his neck before he got up and went to the kitchen.  
His heart was beating a little too quickly, slightly worried at what Sherlock may have heard. He didn’t remember his dream, but if he’d been talking about Sherlock, he could’ve said anything, especially considering that weird dream he'd had after the attack.   
“You’re curious,” Sherlock stated.  
“Sorry what?” he asked, putting the kettle on the stove.  
“Curious. You want to know what you say in your sleep.”   
“Well I wouldn’t’ve said anything too horrible so, no. Not really.”  
“Ahh eager to change the subject. What are you worried you might have said, John?” A smile played at the corners of his lips. He was enjoying this game.   
“Just.. Shut up, Sherlock. Go solve a bloody case or something. Stop.. deducing me.”  
“Whatever it is you dreamt about, you really don’t want me to know, which means I WILL find out. So you may as well tell me now. “  
“Sherlock just leave it alone, I didn’t dream anything, I just don’t think you should watch me while I sleep, allright?”  
“Ohh you’re getting a temper. Telling.”  
John abandoned the breakfast he had been planning to prepare and stomped off to his room.   
He didn’t much care that he was behaving like a child. 'There would be nothing for Sherlock to deduce about this whole bloody situation, because I'm NOT gay.' he told himself. He wasn't sure whether he was positive on that, but he tried to convince himself anyway.  
\----   
It was all but forgotten for the next six days, as Sherlock made deductions and connections and solved the case Lestrade had requested Sherlock assist with. But only an hour after all was said and done, he was on the subject again. “You make faced when you sleep , too, you know," he said as he hung his coat on the back of his chair.  
After a few seconds of silence, John realized what he'd been referencing, “Jesus Christ! Sherlock Holmes, you don't forget anything, do you? I swear if I find out you're watching me sleep, I will kill you.”  
“What were you dreaming about that night, John?”   
“It’s really not important and really not your business. You should experiment on your friends, especially not while they're sleeping.”   
"Why won't you tell me? You don't keep secrets, John."  
"Honestly, Sherlock, what is this about? Because I don't even remember. That night, after the attack, I slept on my chair I was so exhausted, and I slept like a baby. I don't remember what I was dreaming about if I was dreaming about anything at all. Now will you just leave me alone?"  
"You said some things," Sherlock began.  
"What did I even say, Sherlock? What are you trying to figure out, because I am lost."  
"Not surprising."  
"Not helping!" John rolled his eyes and   
"The Americans. The ones who found you. I didn't get to talk to them, but Lestrade told me some things they said when they brought you into the hospital. They told Lestrade you were asking for me and spouting a bunch of nonsense. I attributed it to the blood loss, but you said it again in your sleep. What am I missing? It's probably obvious, right in front of my face and I can't even.--" Sherlock drifted off and he got that look in his eye that always came with a sudden realization. "Oh!" He clapped his hands together and smiled. He took his coat off of his chair and was out the door with a flourish.  
"This can't be good." John grumbled to himself as he flipped on the TV, wondering what theory Sherlock was planning on testing next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geez louise, it's harder to write Sherlock's character than it seems.


	4. Stop Lying to Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to avoid his feelings for Sherlock until he just can't anymore.

The next few weeks went along normally. Well, as normally as life with Sherlock ever was. John blogged about the new case they were on, Sherlock spent endless hours silent in his mind palace, and on a Wednesday afternoon they stood in the morgue over a body while Molly gave them a run down and Sherlock scrutinized the little things an ordinary person would never notice. Deductions followed, and Sherlock was off again, his coat billowing behind him like a cape. John ran to catch up with him, thanking Molly as he left.

Investigating. Deductions. Solved it.

It wasn’t 3 days after the case was closed that Sherlock was complaining, once again, of boredom.  
“Why don’t you watch some telly? Keep your mind busy. Or, you know, sleep for once.” John offered.  
“Tedious. Such a waste of time.”  
“Better than pouting on the couch,” he pointed out. “I’m off to bed.”  
Sherlock shot him a glare and turned away.  
John rolled his eyes and went into his room.

His bladder woke him at 4 in the morning. He groaned and regretted that last cup of tea before bed as he quietly made his way down the stairs, but before he could go back up, he heard a strange noise coming from Sherlock’s room next door. One step closer to the door, he listened more carefully, expecting to hear the aftermath of some sort of experiment gone wrong, but what he heard instead was a particularly obscene moan.  
Half of him wanted to bolt in the other direction, but the half that was frozen in shock wouldn’t let him move. He stood idle only for a few seconds before going quickly back to his room.  
He silently shut the door and got back in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to shake the images that were starting to form in his head. He had tried so desperately to forget about his dreams he had a few weeks prior, after the attack, but they were so real, they were like memories. No good ever came of suppressing things, he knew that, but what else was he supposed to do? He told himself that just because there was an attraction, didn't mean there were feelings, but honestly he didn't know which idea he hated worse. Having given up trying to sleep, he rolled onto his side and kept his gaze fixed on the wall as he lost himself in thought; he spent the rest of the early morning trying to work out what exactly he was feeling and, more importantly, what he was going to do about it.

It was around 6:30 that John finally got up and left his room. He hadn't been able to sleep a wink after what he had heard and he was dreading having to face Sherlock after that. It was hard enough facing him after the strange dream he had after being attacked, but THIS? This was a whole new level of uncomfortable. John was relieved to realize Sherlock was nowhere to be found, and he fixed himself breakfast in peace. After eating, he plopped down in front of the TV to see what was on; he didn't have to go to work, so unless there was a case, he was planning on a nice, lazy Sunday. 

He was typing out another post for his blog about the case they'd finished up earlier that week when he finally heard Sherlock's bedroom door open. He pretended not to notice, his eyes not once deviating from his laptop screen. Sherlock shuffled past John, who was seated at the kitchen table, and dramatically sighed as he dropped his body weight onto the couch. John allowed himself a glance over at his flatmate, and regretted it immediately. "Jesus, Sherlock! Put on some clothes!"  
"What for?" he mumbled.  
It was like living with a child. "I don't know, maybe because your flatmate doesn't want to see you walking around half naked, barely wrapped in a sheet."  
"Why would you care? The presence or lack thereof of my pants have no affect whatsoever on you."  
"Of course you're not wearing pants," John grumbled, not loud enough for Sherlock to hear. "Would you just put something on?"  
"There is no reason for me to get dressed and you have no reason to be uncomfortable, does this have anything to do with last night?"  
He knew that no matter how hard he tried to keep his expression composed, that the slight blush raising in his cheeks would be a dead giveaway. He denied it anyway, trying to ignore his own embarrassment, "What are you talking about? Nothing happened last night. I came home from work, I watched telly, I went to sleep, and we barely spoke a word."  
"John you know I'm not an idiot, stop lying to me, you're awful at it anyway."  
"I'm not doing this with you right now. Or ever. Just forget about it, would you just forget it?"  
"John I--"  
He was interrupted by John slamming his laptop shut. He grabbed his coat and shoes and left their flat, not speaking another word. He put on his shoes once he was out the door and walked down to the sidewalk where he pulled out his phone and waved down a cab.  
"John! Everything okay?" Lestrade asked at the other end of the line.  
"Yeah, no, everything's fine. Are you currently busy?"  
"Uhh.. Just working on some paperwork, why?"  
"Mind if I drop by?"  
"Sure. Are you sure everything's all right?"  
"Yeah. I'll see you in twenty," he hung up and let out a deep breath. He had no idea what he was going to say, he just needed someone to talk to, and Lestrade was the closest person he had to a friend apart from Sherlock.  
\------  
"John, hey... Have a seat." Lestrade gestured to the chair opposite his desk.  
"Thanks."  
"So does this have something to do with Sherlock?" he asked.  
"Yeah... actually. But not in the way you might think. Do you mind if I..?" John gestured to the door.  
"Sure, sure." John closed the door behind him and sat down. "You're starting to freak me out a little bit. What's going on?"  
After a pause, he spoke, "I.. uh.." he cleared his throat. "Okay. This is going to sound.. completely ridiculous. But I am out of options. You do not breathe a word of this to anyone."

"Allright. What could it possibly be that is so awful that you're acting like this? What's going on?"  
John wanted to play it off like it was all a big joke. He wanted to forget any feeling or attraction he ever had towards Sherlock Holmes, never voicing or acknowledging it. He wanted to go back to the night he was attacked, go straight home after work, and skip the bar. "That night I was taken by the deranged man with the face tattoos..." he began, "I remember trying to fight him off, and the next thing I know, I was in bed."  
"Yeah, you were in the hospital," Lestrade remarked.  
"No. No, I mean... My bed in Baker Street. I was so confused, and I looked over and Sherlock was there with me."  
"What?!"  
"It must have been a dream... A reaction to something that guy drugged me with, or something... But I see it clear as day, like memories. Anyway, I tried to get it out of my head, but... I can't." Lestrade was silent, his expression a mixture of shock and confusion. "In whatever that dream was, Sherlock and I were... well.. we were together. And I don't know if my subconscious just gave me what I wanted to cope with being near-dead or what, but I... Greg, I can't escape this. I can't ignore this, and believe me, I've tried." John sighed and hung his head in his hands.  
After a few minutes, Lestrade spoke, "Well I guess that explains why Sam and Dean assumed Sherlock was your partner. You were apparently talking in incoherent fragments and when they found you, they told the nurse to see if they could get ahold of someone called Sherlock because you kept asking for him. I just assumed that was the last thing you remembered before being attacked or something."  
"Oh god."  
More silence followed until Lestrade asked the question that John had been trying to avoid for weeks, "So what are you going to do about it?"  
"There's nothing to do. He's SHERLOCK. Dating isn't 'his area,' and I really don't know if I WANT to do anything about it."  
"You're the exception to every one of this other rules, why would this be any different? Look, I'm not saying you should go and profess your love for him tonight, I'm just suggesting you think about it. It's obvious how much he cares about you, you might be surprised."  
John rolled his eyes. "Allright. I'll think about it. All I DO is think about it, especially with last night..."  
"What happened last night?"  
"Nevermind. Thank you, I appreciate it... But, I am reinforcing my point that if you say anything about any of this to a single soul, I swear--"  
"I won't say a thing, John."  
"Where are you off to now?"  
"Off to confess my attraction to my flatmate. Off to drown my worries in a bottle of whisky early in the morning? Who knows."  
He walked out of the office and through the building and into the brisk, London air, having no idea what he was going to do next.


	5. Exception to the Rule.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two idiots finally confront their feelings.

John was stuck between wanting to just burst into the door of 221B and say whatever came to him, or over thinking the whole thing to the point where he figured he should just bury it all and not think about it ever again. He paced up and down the street for half hour before finally walking inside. He didn’t speak a word to his flatmate, he made a cup of tea, grabbed his laptop, and began typing as he sat in his chair. Sherlock was still on the couch, it didn’t look like he had moved much, if at all.   
“What is it you were stewing on for the past half hour?” Sherlock asked.  
“What?” John pretended to be oblivious, despite knowing that Sherlock could see right through him.   
“You've been here awhile, but you just now came in. You paced up and down Baker Street for an eternity, usually you only pace for 10 or 15 minutes if you’re angry; something’s bothering you, and it’s troubling you more than usual.”  
“You know you don’t have to analyze me like that all the time." He paused before he added, "And you know you could have put on some clothes while I was out."  
"No point. Lestrade doesn't have any cases worth my time, I have no reason to go out and no reason to get dressed. Also, you know you don't actually care what I'm wearing, so what does it matter? Seriously John, don't look at me like that, I'm not stupid. I know you don't care, so why pretend like you do?"  
"Are you suggesting that I have a physical attraction to you?" John tried to sound disgusted to mask his embarrassment. It was no use, he could feel the heat rising in his face.  
"No, but that's so obvious I didn't feel the need to point it out."  
"Yes, well, it's not like I can do anything about it, so why does it matter?"  
"I'm aware you don't want to pursue a relationship, John, as you have pointed out many times before... Not gay."  
"What I want is irrelevant considering you are.. what was it.. married to your work."  
"What do you want?"  
Caught off guard again. He stared at the ground, flustered. "I don't know."  
"Well if you're considering something physical, I would decline, because--"  
"No!" John interrupted. "No, I'm not considering... No. It's not that." He chose his words carefully and spoke slowly, "I know that this whole thing isn't really your area. And I know you're married to your work." If he didn't say it now, when would he? "But whatever this is... it's not just physical. Before I was in Afghanistan, I was dating this amazing woman... things ended before I even left for the war, but... I told people that I loved her. I don't say that anymore, because I'm not certain that I really did. When I was with her, I never thought I would feel that strongly about another person. I was wrong."  
Staring down at his hands by the time he was finished talking, John held his breath, waiting for some response from Sherlock. He wasn't sure what to expect... a laugh, an explanation that nothing had changed and that he truly was still married to his work... It was Sherlock, it could have been anything. But when John peered up, he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's expression, a cross between confusion and what looked like relief. "You don't mean... I..." Sherlock trailed off, speechless.   
"I know this won't change anything and I really don't know why I said all that. Maybe I wanted to get it off my chest, maybe I wanted you to hear it, but you can just forget about it." He got up from his chair and walked to the front door.  
"Wait," he heard from behind him. He turned around to see Sherlock, flustered, and still sitting in his sheet, but now sitting upright on the couch. "A few years ago, I didn't even have friends; I never thought myself capable of having them because everyone I have ever known is put off by my personality and behavior. You proved to be the exception to the rule. I still do not understand why you came back with me to Baker Street after my two year absence, now that I know the pain that it caused you while I was away. I want you to know that if there was anyone in this world worth being with, that it would be you. You're always the exception."

John was baffled. He slowly made his way to the couch and sat down next to his flatmate. "You're not leaving?" Sherlock asked.  
"No? Why would I?"  
"Well until a moment ago, you were ready to head out the door."  
"When I was attacked a few weeks ago, while I was unconscious... I was dreaming. Vivdly."  
"How is this relevant?"  
"I woke up in my bed and I looked over and you were next to me, asleep. I can tell you about the whole dream some other time, but the gist of it was that I was with you."  
"You dreamt about me?"  
"Us," he corrected.  
"Us..." Sherlock echoed.   
"I woke up in that hospital and once I realized what was real and what wasn't... I knew. That sinking feeling in my chest made it obvious. I mean, I shot a man for you the day after we met, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat," he looked over at Sherlock and offered a half smile, but Sherlock just looked confused. How could he not understand? John did the only thing he could think to do in that moment... he leaned over and planted a kiss on Sherlock's lips.  
"Oh." Sherlocks eyes went wide.  
"Yes."  
"But, John, love.."   
"...is a dangerous disadvantage? A human error? No, Sherlock, it's actually rather normal and it is, from what I hear, one of the greatest human experiences there is. And you are NOT a sociopath. You are the most human human being I have ever met and you drive me mad but I wouldn't have it any other way."  
John could have gone on all night praising Sherlock Holmes, but he was interrupted by a pair of lips pressing against his. 

Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking the next chapter will probably be the last.   
> Thanks for reading! We're almost done.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy fluffity fluff fluff.

At the realization that somehow Sherlock shared his desire, John was in a state of disbelief, but so overtaken with elation that he didn’t even pause to over analyze. It was just he and Sherlock, nothing else mattered. He kissed Sherlock deeply, without hesitation, communicating every feeling he’d been holding back not just the past few weeks, but since they first met. He flashed back to that first dinner, and though he hadn’t been intentionally flirting, when Sherlock shot him down, he couldn’t help but be disappointed . Sherlock was off limits from then on, which was part of the reason why John never tried to go down that road. But there they were…. Two years since Sherlock’s return from the “dead," kissing. He stood up, not breaking the kiss, and pulled Sherlock’s legs on to the couch. His lips fell open slightly and his tongue brushed Sherlock’s as he crawled on top of him. He lowered his hips slowly and the second they made contact, Sherlock’s breath hitched and John let out a barely audible moan.  
“J—John .. I can’t.. I..”  
Breathing heavily, John stopped himself and got off of him. “Sorry, I… I mean, I—” he trailed off and stood up, clenching and unclenching his left hand.   
"I can't continue down this path," Sherlock repeated, "You don't want this."  
"Don't. Don't assume that you can read my mind, you're not often wrong, but right now you could not be more off."  
"John before I met you, I didn't even have friends. Now you're acting like you want to be involved, but you don't. I can’t give you what you want, it's a wonder you even tolerate me enough to stay friends with me. You deserve better than me. You deserve someone capable of love, and you deserve someone who believes in things like that. I can’t…” He trailed off and positioned himself upright.   
“Would you just turn your brain off for a minute, if you're not going to start thinking clearly? You're Sherlock Holmes, you see everything. Why can't you see that I..." he left the I love you off. "Lord knows I'm not the best with expressing emotion... but how do you feel? Because if this is something you don't want, I will move past it. We'll get on, business as usual, and you can 'delete' this entire interaction.”  
“In my life I have never known someone to tolerate me like you do, and you not only put up with me, you care about me and my well being. Before you, that was a foreign concept to me. I am not worthy if being the object of your affection; I simply don’t deserve you and that’s a fact.”  
“You didn't answer my question,” he replied, his tone softer than before.   
“What I want is hardly relevant," he stopped talking, but before John could interrupt, he spoke again. "If you must know. I have spent much of my life apathetic to people and I care more about solving a murder than I do saving a life. You know this, you've seen it. I avoided any form of sentiment at all costs... that is, before you. You are the reason I faked my death, I couldn't live with myself knowing I would have caused your death, and more than that... I couldn't live knowing you were dead. It has become increasingly difficult to ignore, and I stopped trying a while ago. So it's obvious that, yes, if I was to enter some sort of a 'romantic' relationship with another person, I would prefer it to be with you. But I can't do that to you, because we don't have the same idea of a relationship. I can't be selfish and take you away from your chance at a happy life with someone who can give you love and marriage and kids and whatever else it is that that life would give you."  
John took the few steps over to the couch and sat, "I would rather spend the rest of my life solving crimes with you than have any of that. If I had to pick between waking up every day with a wife, kid, and normal life, and living here with you in 221B, going days without sleep, dashing about, and never properly finishing a meal, I'd take you in a second. Honestly the whole wife-and-kids concept is beginning to seem increasingly boring anyway. Now would you stop arguing with me, accept that I love you, and we can just get on with it?"

Sherlock stared at John for a solid minute before John gave an impatient sigh and kissed him again. He started off slowly... making sure it was abundantly clear that Sherlock could pull away or stop it at anytime, and eventually a few consecutive kisses slowly blurred into a continuous one. His one hand rested on Sherlock's hip, and the other up by the back of his neck. Sherlock kissed back, hesitantly, before finally stopping, scooting back on the couch, and staring at the man before him. Thinking. John began to internally panic, wondering if he had made the wrong move. Surely if he had, Sherlock would have had a much stronger reaction. John tried to reassure himself of this as he shifted, twiddling his thumbs as he moved his focus to the ground. He couldn't risk looking Sherlock in the face and seeing what he feared most, that this was all a huge mistake and that he had lost his best friend, and lost any chance of them moving forward. He had been stupid to believe that Sherlock would even want this. He didn't do... sentiment, love... None of it.   
"John, stop thinking so loud," came the voice. "Give me a moment." He felt like a year had passed when Sherlock finally spoke again. "However tedious, I seem to remember you telling me breathing is necessary for human life, and I'd rather you continue living."   
He let go of the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and looked down, shutting his eyes, hoping this whole situation would resolve itself.  
"Would this make you happy, John?"  
"To say the least."  
"Then that settles it," he declared. He slid a bit closer to John on the couch and barely hesitated before closing the distance between their lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I wrote this fairly quickly compared to how I write other things, and I'm not saying this to fish for compliments or be modest, I just.. I know this isn't my best work. Maybe I shouldn't have posted it, but I feel like I had a great idea and I wanted to turn it into something, thus this fic was born. I might have to rewrite the idea with a completely different storyline eventually.. with more of a plot than this has. But for now, here is this. I hope you enjoy it. :)


End file.
